


in your heart shall burn

by piyo_nii



Series: Kurokura Week 2018 [1]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Inquisition, Fantasy, Implied Killugon, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Pre-Slash, kurokuraweek2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 02:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16610027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piyo_nii/pseuds/piyo_nii
Summary: Kurokura Week 2018, Day 1: FantasyThick metal bars separate them, and heavy lyrium-sealing cuffs adorn Chrollo’s wrists.Chrollo is their prisoner, so why is Kurapika the one left feeling so exposed?(And that rumor about seeing souls?Ridiculous, Kurapika thinks, even though he has to resist the urge to squirm when Chrollo looks up and forces taupe to meet grey.)





	in your heart shall burn

**Author's Note:**

> this is hilariously late, i'm sorry, i'm a joke. but i hope this really weird AU is worth reading?? :')
> 
> BIG THANKS to [LadyIDK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIDK/pseuds/LadyIDK) for reading over this steaming pile of garbage! please check out her work! she's super talented! ♥
> 
>  **Notes for the Road:**  
>  > “Shemlen”/”shem” = elven derogatory term for humans  
> > The Maker & Andraste (his Bride) = pretty much God and his wife  
> > Mythal = elven god  
> > Dalish = nomadic elves who reside in small clans  
> > “Ma ghilana mir din’an…” = “Guide me into death.”  
> > Apostate = a rebel mage  
> > Aravel = a ship that travels on land  
> > Lyrium = Dangerous mineral-like substance that can do a bunch of things (but in this case, is used to suppress magic)  
> > hole in the sky = the Breach; actually a hole in the sky, demons come out of it and stuff

Gon sits on a grand throne of glittering gold and polished marble. Sunlight pours in from the stained glass behind him, washing the main hall in hues of reds and greens and blues.

He couldn’t possibly look more uncomfortable than he already does.

His legs dangle and swing in the air, still too short to reach the ground despite his rapidly-growing frame, and he can’t quite keep his hands still. Shaky fingers fumble with the hem of his tunic, pick at the scabbed wounds on his knees. Golden flames that were sculpted with reverence for Andraste and her Chosen surround him, nearly swallow him whole.

Gon is nervous. Rightfully so, Kurapika thinks. Massive crowds flank their sides, eager to witness history in the making. They’re too preoccupied with the prospect of meeting the boy who can mend the skies to mind his simple green button-up and short trousers. Kids his age should be playing in the fields, soaking in the sunlight and crisp mountain air. Instead, he’s tasked with deciding the fates of their enemies as the figurehead of an organization bigger than themselves.

Kurapika watches silently as Gon attempts to straighten his back, but he barely lasts a second before his nerves seemingly get the best of him. He doesn't move to reprimand Gon for his poor posture, though—he understands that this is a tall order for anyone, let alone a kid who had barely entered his double-digits. Kurapika isn’t sure what he’d do if fate had chosen him instead of Gon, if he had been branded with the mark that rests beneath the worn leather of Gon’s glove.

—But it hadn’t. Sheer luck had thrusted an unsuspecting twelve-year-old boy onto a throne built for kings. Gon, whose heart is almost too big for his small, calloused palms to hold, carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he smiles and fights for a future most adults had already given up on.

He’s the Inquisitor, the one touched by the Maker and blessed by his Bride, yet he sleeps in the trees, eats with the infantry. Nobles and farmers alike find themselves in his earnest gaze, seemingly unfazed by the power he had been bestowed with. Gon is unmistakably, amazingly human—he’s a mortal with a gift from the gods, living proof that some higher entity is watching over them.

(But being human, unfortunately, also means making mistakes.)

And Kurapika can’t imagine his ruling as anything other than a serious err in judgment. The hushed whispers that had engulfed the main hall become white noise against the sound of blood rushing through his ears. Gon’s gaze momentarily flickers in his direction, brows scrunched with concern, but Kurapika doesn’t respond with anything more than a clenched jaw. Sudden thoughts of _what in Mythal’s name does he think he’s doing_ and _I knew shemlens couldn’t be trusted_ flood his mind, fueling a fire in his gut that, he now knows, had never truly been extinguished.

 _Good,_ he thinks bitterly as Gon declines the greatsword Commander Leorio offered him with a shake of his head, officially pardoning the man kneeling before them.

As frustrated as he is, Kurapika can’t help but berate himself for not considering the possibility of Gon throwing all of his notes out the window. The boy had a habit of judging with his feelings instead of his brain—which is fine for someone of his age, but not when administering punishments to criminals. After all, nothing but trouble could come out of sparing some thief who had killed one of the Inquisition’s staunchest supporters.

What’s even more damning is the fact that they’re not dealing with your average pickpocket. Dark, sweat-matted locks veil his eyes from curious onlookers, but a whisper of a smile lingers on his lips. When Leorio orders him to raise his head, the crowd falls into a terse silence—their sights are undoubtedly trained on the cross insignia that sits above his brow. Smooth, delicate lines lie stark against the man’s pale skin, streaked with dirt and dried blood.

Only the leader of the Phantom Troupe is known for donning this mark on their forehead.

The Inquisitor had just pardoned the infamous Chrollo Lucilfer.

 

 

 

 

 

Unlike most Dalish, Kurapika doesn’t hate humans. They’re selfish, warmongering creatures who destroy more often than they create, but there are some who manage to break free from the mold. Gon, Killua, even Leorio—they remind Kurapika of why he had fallen in love with the world, back when the lands he wished to explore were only illustrations in a storybook.

The forest will always be his home, but he had wanted more—to smell sea salt in the air, to take in the fragrances and colors of the city. He wanted to go beyond the aravel-filled plains, past the towering emerald trees and snowy mountains.

Joining the Inquisition gave him that opportunity. And just as Kurapika had expected, people were quick to judge him for his features rather than his wit.

Humans would laugh in his face, call him knife-ear. Now he mingles with wolves and sheep in gilded ballrooms, schedules luncheons with the most influential men and women of their age. If Gon is the Inquisition’s heart, Kurapika is its mouth, their voice in a sea of skeptics.

So he likes to believe his outrage is at least a _little_ justified. The Nostrades’ support gave them leverage over the Chantry, made them look a little more like a force to be reckoned with rather than pariahs vying for power. Under normal circumstances, sparing the one who had murdered them would’ve been political suicide.

(Kurapika remembers, quite clearly, spending at least three evenings going over why Gon’s next judgment would be his most crucial yet. They had poured over piles and piles of notes detailing the exploits of the Phantom Troupe, and—sure, Gon might’ve dozed off once or twice, but Kurapika _swears_ he had gotten all of the information down.)

...Really, he should’ve seen it coming. From the way he had bitten his lip and side-eyed Killua with eyes that spoke of guilt, Gon had practically been screaming, _“Hey Kurapika, I know you told me not to do this, but...”_

A heavy stack of letters sits to his left, so tall it nearly obstructs his view of the door. It didn’t take long for word to reach every stretch of the country, and before he knew it, Kurapika was receiving hundreds of letters by the day. Some damning him and the Inquisition, some praising them for being the champion of human rights, but all expressing some degree of confusion.

How can Kurapika placate their worries when he’s just as clueless as they are?

 _“Ma ghilana mir din’an…”_  he murmurs to no one in particular. In the quiet of his office, Kurapika buries his face into his hands and sinks into his chair.

 

 

 

 

 

Gon doesn’t confront him until that evening, after the masses had dissipated. Even the lightest footsteps echo like thunder when the main hall is empty. Kurapika hears him approaching long before Gon opens the heavy oak doors.

“You’re angry.”

“—Yes,” Kurapika eventually answers, stare firm but frown wavering.

In the softening light of the setting sun, Gon’s exhaustion is more apparent. Honey eyes brim with a duller kind of excitement, a product of long days out in the field and even longer nights in the war room. It’s almost too easy to forget that Gon is still a child, another victim of the political turmoil that had struck the land in recent years.

“I know you all warned me about him. I trust you.” Gon leans against the cool flagstone wall, crossing his arms as if deep in thought. “I still think he’s a bad person. Neon and her father didn’t—they didn’t deserve to die.”

Kurapika nods stiffly, his ruby earring catching the dying sunlight as he moves. “You’re right about that.”

“And I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to kill people.” Gon’s voice is gentler now—his words flow like tentative trickles of water instead of his usual stream of energy. Kurapika isn’t quite sure what the shift means, but he almost sounds older like this. The role of Inquisitor is forcing him to grow up too soon, too quickly. “I can’t kill him, so I thought the best option would be to put him in prison and—”

“—hope that he works for us?” Kurapika asks incredulously. “You can’t possibly believe that he’ll—”

“We don’t know for sure,” Gon interjects, a little stronger this time. There’s a special kind of resolve in the way he clenches his fist and forces himself to make eye contact with Kurapika’s icy gaze. “We really don’t. I mean, Killua was an assassin before he agreed to be our Spymaster. Did you know that?” He speaks of Killua like he always does—full of awe, admiration, and something a little deeper than his twelve-year-young heart can comprehend. “But that was Killua back then. He’s different now.” Gon’s nearly pleading when he clasps Kurapika’s hands and says, “I don’t know, Kurapika. Maybe _he’s_ the same way, too.”

Gon’s faith in Killua is so pure, it nearly hurts.

Kurapika sighs, then, because he doesn’t remember what it’s like to trust someone so keenly. “I understand what you’re trying to say, but it’s just not viable. Killua is _not_ Chrollo Lucilfer. He’s a vile, immoral man who cares little about who he hurts. If we don’t deal with him swiftly, the rest of the Troupe will come for him. Are you truly that willing to put everyone here in danger?”

“Kurapika… I can’t execute him,” Gon states slowly, growing firmer as he enunciates each syllable. “And I know you can’t either.”

There’s a note of finality in his tone, so powerful that Kurapika can’t bring himself to speak. Gon’s soft smile is pained. He has no need to formally state what’s implied, because at the end of the day, Gon is still his superior.

At the end of the day, Gon isn’t a killer, and he knows Kurapika isn’t one, either.

“Maybe I’m making a really big mistake, but please, just think about it. I know you’re upset, and I’m truly, truly sorry! I just—can’t shake off this feeling I have…” Gon trails off, looking contrite. “If he tries anything funny, I won’t get in your way. Until then, he’s going to live. And we’re going to try to talk to him."

 

 

 

 

 

When Kurapika descends the stairs to the dungeons, the odor of decay and rust greets him.

All of the cells are empty save for one. Gon isn’t known for taking too many prisoners—most are given a slap on the wrist, maybe banished at worst. That also means Kurapika has little reason to visit this part of their fortress, so the smell of metal is almost too overwhelming. Two steps in, and he already wishes to run back outside, to inhale the fragrance of pine needles and air untouched by mold.

His boots kick up water as he walks towards the end of the hall. For reasons Kurapika can’t quite explain, something akin to apprehension is bubbling in his chest, threatening to travel up his throat. And that—doesn’t make any sense. He had conversed with the Empress of Kakin just last week. He hadn’t felt more than a twinge of worry; how is meeting Chrollo Lucilfer any worse?

Following the narrow line of caged doors brings Kurapika to stand before the largest cell they have. Several meters up the wall, warm sunlight slants into the room from a small window. If he squints, Kurapika can see Chrollo’s hunched-over form in the corner, veiled in shadows.

“You should consider yourself quite fortunate,” he calls out as both a statement and an announcement of his arrival. Kurapika reminds himself to keep his shoulders straight and his voice clear. The nervousness is still there, simmering in his gut, but Kurapika refuses to show any semblance of weakness. This man isn’t worth even that. “The Inquisitor is too good to savage _shems_ like you.”

Silence stretches between them as Chrollo stands from his spot on the ground. He can feel the resoluteness coursing through his veins, but Kurapika is still wary. He had heard the rumors. They say the leader of the Phantom Troupe can see past your eyes, straight into your soul. They say he can manipulate the unsuspecting with little more than a smile and a greeting. Kurapika has no cause for concern—swords and magic may slay demons, but he can destroy men with carefully-chosen words and a glove on the table. Yet—this is different. Somehow. Perhaps it’s because their meeting place isn’t a luxurious parlor, but rather a dingy prison cell with a leaky ceiling and nonexistent lighting.

Thick metal bars separate them, and heavy lyrium-sealing cuffs adorn Chrollo’s wrists.

Chrollo is their prisoner, so why is Kurapika the one left feeling so exposed?

(And that rumor about seeing souls? _Ridiculous,_ Kurapika thinks, even though he has to resist the urge to squirm when Chrollo looks up and forces taupe to meet grey.)

After a moment, Chrollo shrugs. “That’s one way to put it. I’d personally label him as naive.”

“I don’t particularly care about what you think about the Inquisitor,” Kurapika says with a roll of his eyes. “All I want to know is why you did it.”

When Chrollo blinks twice, Kurapika has to resist the urge to strangle him. Somewhere in the distance, a drop of water plops into a puddle. “Did what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” He feels a bit bolder with the irritation that surges through his bones. Kurapika takes this energy, uses it to step closer to the bars and shoot Chrollo a glower that can freeze fire. “You said your Troupe was interested in the Nostrade’s treasure. That, I don’t doubt. But why kill them?”

“Oh, that. Well.” Chrollo nearly looks flummoxed with the way his eyes widen, but Kurapika had met with too many seedy politicians to fall for such a simple trick. “...Why not?”

“...Excuse you?”

“I mean, yes, we got what we wanted. Coin, jewelry—some rather macabre items too, surprisingly—but we couldn’t just let them _go._ ” He sounds so sure of himself, so confident that what he’d done was just the natural course of action. Kurapika has to stare at him for a second, because there’s no way this man is attempting to justify murder with a flippant hand gesture and an answer that’s just an elaborate _duh._ “It’d be a nuisance if they’d decided to send people after us in retaliation.”

That draws a disbelieving laugh out of Kurapika. “That’s disgustingly callous of you,” he mutters, just barely loud enough for the other to hear. “Are all apostates this barbaric?”

“If I surpass your standard for barbarism, wait until you meet my friend.”

If Kurapika were a lesser man, Chrollo’s matter-of-fact tone would’ve sent chills down his spine. But luckily he isn’t, so Kurapika allows himself to smirk when he says, “Chances are, you’ll be imprisoned for life. You won’t see your Troupe ever again.”

When a knowing smile graces Chrollo’s lips, Kurapika has to wonder what it means.

“As much as I enjoy being told that I’m damned for all eternity, I’d like to know why you decided to pay me a visit. I didn’t know elves cared so much about their neighbors.”

“We don’t.” _I especially don’t care about your wellbeing,_ Kurapika refrains himself from spitting out. “But I have a job to do, and I’d prefer to see it done before the hole in the sky spits out even more demons.”

“—About that,” Chrollo interrupts before Kurapika can protest, “I just remembered. I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

Kurapika stills, and he instantly regrets it—he doesn’t want Chrollo to think he’s actually interested in whatever he’s scheming (even though deep down, he kind of _is_ ). He’d down a flagon of dragon’s piss before admitting that, though. “I think you’ve talked enough. Commander Leorio will be coming in once a day to interrogate you. If you’ve got any sense left, you’ll consider submitting to the Inquisition.”

With a quick pat on his pants to shake off the dust, Kurapika gives him one last searing glare. A part of him hopes that this is the end, that Chrollo would understand that he’s flogging a dead horse.

...But if Chrollo is deterred by Kurapika spinning on his heels to walk away, it doesn’t show. “What, do you really want me to work as your slave? Your Inquisitor isn’t around, Dalish. It’s okay—you can tell me you don’t want me here.”

“...Alright then.” Kurapika slowly turns to face him despite the nearly-overpowering urge to leave. “I don’t want you here. Your mere presence is a threat to hundreds of good people—”

“Under normal circumstances, yes, but it doesn’t have to be.” At Kurapika’s confused stare, Chrollo continues. “This might sound mad, but my Troupe wants to live. We don’t want the Breach to be the end. Your people,” he says, pointing at the golden eye that’s sewn across Kurapika’s cloak, “can seal it, and my people can help.”

Kurapika doesn’t miss a beat. “You want to help.”

“We’re a safer choice than the Templars. You don’t have to believe me, but it’s true.”

“You’re insane,” Kurapika huffs, but he worries if he’s even crazier for continuing this conversation.

“It’s what your Inquisitor wants. Save yourself a headache and consider it, will you?”

Chrollo looks much too confident for a man behind bars, and it’s absolutely _infuriating_. “I’ll give you some time to think. I’m not going anywhere.”

“—Right. You’re not.” Kurapika blinks at the cuffs around Chrollo’s wrists and ankles. Without his magic, he more than likely lacks the strength to break free from his binds. “I’ll… discuss it with the others. But understand that an agreement does not mean you’re free to do whatever you wish.”

If Kurapika had to name the single most aggravating thing about Chrollo, it would, undoubtedly, be the unshakable complacency on his face. Kurapika would rather see fury, sorrow, anything but the (dare he think it) _patient_ curl of his lips. He considers reaching past the bars and slamming Chrollo’s skull against thick steel, but the facts are as clear as day. Chrollo is playing a game—one that Kurapika can’t afford to lose.

His hands are tied, and Chrollo knows it. If there’s even a remote chance that the Phantom Troupe can assist in closing the Breach, Kurapika would be a fool to pass it up. He thinks back to Gon, who almost always returns with a broken limb, sometimes worse. He thinks back to their soldiers who are dying in territories they probably had never heard of before, because they had deemed the Inquisition a worthy cause to dedicate their lives to.

Kurapika swallows his pride because he must. For the determination that shines in their Inquisitor’s eyes and the hope that lives in the people’s hearts.

“Of course. I wasn't expecting anything more,” Chrollo replies predictably. But what isn’t so predictable is the glint in his eyes when he says, “I know you’ll manage to convince them. I’ve heard of your accomplishments, the people you’ve managed to keep under your thumb. You’re very capable.”

Kurapika rubs at his arms as though he’s chilly, but there’s no cold draft to blame. “Um. Thank you.” Chrollo’s gaze is becoming too difficult to meet. Kurapika resorts to staring at the ground instead. “Now, if you have nothing else you’d like to discuss, I will be taking my leave.” And it’s out of his mouth before he thinks about it: “I sincerely hope you’re not always this frustrating.”

At this, Chrollo smiles. His hair is sticking at odd angles and he looks as if he hasn’t bathed in months, and Kurapika wishes he didn’t find Chrollo’s grin so— _distracting._ “You could visit again and find out. I think you’d be better company than that commander of yours.” As Kurapika walks farther and farther away, his voice sounds like a distant echo. “What about it? Come back tomorrow?”

The only response he’s given is the sharp slam of the door.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope my writer's block isn't THAT obvious, lmao...! disclaimer: i'm going to be super late for pretty much all the days, but i will be filling them to the best of my ability! i have a short break next week, so i'll definitely spend that time writing. i apologize for the wait!!!
> 
> If you're interested in participating in Kurokura Week, feel free to visit our blog [HERE](http://www.yahoo.com)! Lots of brilliant people are contributing such amazing things! I really hope you take a peek at their awesome work!


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